


Orchestrated

by WriteAnon



Category: Laz Briar, Original Work
Genre: Based off my buddy's work, He made this happen, LazBriar, M/M, Original Fiction, assassinations are bad m'kay, everyone is a bad person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25196944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteAnon/pseuds/WriteAnon
Summary: Edwin, Aloise, and Pik wind up in a new, awful place. While trying to put food on the table and silver in their pockets, Edwin and Aloise uncover a conspiracy with far-reaching consequences.
Relationships: Edwin/Aloise
Kudos: 4





	Orchestrated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LazBriar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/gifts).



> Done as a commission for my good friend Laz Brair. These are his characters and I wish I could conjure such wonderfully interesting people.

ORCHESTRATED

The sky was orange, tinted with chimney smoke and smog. The vast city of Great Caulden stretched out for miles in all directions, touching the horizon. A person born in the stinking depths of its sprawl could be forgiven for thinking the city never ended, that Great Caulden coated the world entire like a film of mildew coated a privy stall. One could be forgiven for giving up hope.

Pik breathed in deep, spreading her arms wide as she drank in her surroundings, wreathed in foul, boggy steam that trailed up from the sewer-grate. “Oh, yeah! That’s the stuff!”

“What’s zhe stuff?” Aloise, a wispy well-dressed Lapin, grimaced, his lip curling over sharp fangs, pince-nez sunglasses glinting in the dull city light. “Zhe shit, zhe rubbish, or zhe filzh?”

“Yes!” The goblin wafted the steam over to the rabbit, who reacted as through she’d just hurled dung at his bone-white tailcoat.

“Eddieeeee!” The lapine cried to the tall, silver-haired man to his left, the scarf covering his mouth and nose unable to hide his amusement. “Make her stop!”

“Pik.” Edwin said, a smirk clear in his voice. “Stoppit.”

Pik grinned, touching the pant-leg of a passing wretch before approaching the effete rabbit, defiled hand extended. Aloise squawked and hurried to put Edwin between him and the filthy goblin.

“I tried.” Edwin snickered.

“Eddie!”

Edwin shook his head; he knew full well the outrage was at least somewhat manufactured, he’d seen him clean a deer with all the aloof aplomb of a traveled trapper; Aloise was many things, but squeamish was not one of them.

“So, Pik,” said Edwin, looking around at their squalid surroundings. “Why are we here?”  
“For fun. For money. For ingredients.” Pik plucked a mushroom off of one of the many piles of rubbish. “The usual.”

“Alright, let’s find a place to hunker down, then,” Edwin said, looking around at the bustling street, seeing an alarming number of coffin-houses and rope-bed hostels. “What do we have for funds?”

Aloise answered, not even checking his purse: “One gold dinar, six silver cestii, a tin ingot, and twenty assorted bronze coins from all over zhe coast.”

Pik grinned, rubbing her hands together. “Sounds not-terrible! Let’s see what that can get us!”  


The room was tiny, three long strides aside, with a floor comprised of dirt, straw, and filth compacted into a solid surface. The bed, for want of a better term, was a ramshackle cot built around a pile of hay in a burlap sack. Edwin swore he saw the sack squirm with the sheer bulk of vermin residing within. Luckily for him he had long ago learned to sleep standing up, as lying down anywhere in the Moonlight Swamps was a surefire way to wake up with a leechroach hanging from your eye.

Pik kicked the pulsating ‘bed’, recoiling somewhat when it squealed. “Okay, so the rental market here is a touch shallow, but you can’t argue with that bargain! One gold dinar for six months! I almost felt bad for that landlord!”

“You signed a six monz lease for zhis hovel,” Aloise sneered, doing his best to not touch anything. “Wiz blood.”

“Not my blood,” said Pik, dabbing her finger into a vial of hot sauce, flicking the tiny drop into the hearth, which was instantly awash with flames. “Some poor sap in Lesser Hanzt is in for a bad time when the Contractors track him down.”

Edwin opened his mouth to speak when a curt growl from his stomach silenced him: he was famished. “Well, no time like the present. Let’s see about work, eh?”

“Well, I was aimin’ to forage for some prime ingredients for potions and spellery to sell. You’re free to tag along.”

Edwin raised an eyebrow; Pik’s ingredients tended to be, well, ingredients. Vegetables, herbs, fruit, small creatures and the like. “Where could you forage around here?”

“Canals, sewers, rain traps, drains, you name it!” Pik grinned. “Magic lives where life congregates, Eddie. The life that eats the waste of an entire city will be full to burstin’ with the stuff!”

Edwin grimaced under his scarf and Aloise scoffed, snapping his pocket mirror shut. “Yes, Eddie. Feel free to trudge about in zhe shit and filzh wizh all zhe ozher mudlarks and vermin. Or you could come wizh me and I’ll find us some respectable work. I have contacts in Great Caulden zhat could provide more… appropriate employ.”

“‘Hy hef kontaks in meh-bleh-feh-bleh’!” Pik parroted, gesturing in an overblown effete manner before wanking an invisible cock. “Yeah, we all know what kinda ‘contact’ you get up to!”

Edwin weighed his options: wade hip-deep in industrial waste, or potentially get sold into prostitution.

He was too hungry for this shit.

“I’ll stick with Al,” Edwin said, shrugging. “Street-walking means street vendors, and I’d rather sate my appetite than lose it.”

“Have fun in zhe sewer, Pik,” Aloise said, following Edwin out the door. “Always good to return to one’s roots.”  
Pik bit her thumb at them as they left. “Have fun, Eddie! Careful! You might catch something that’ll take to that bogwater you call blood!”  
The door swung shut with a dry, feeble clack. 

Pik growled and hefted her bag. “Sod it all.”

* * *

Edwin munched on the slow-roasted rat on a stick. The meat was tender and greasy with a mild gamy flavor, not unlike the rats he was used to back home. Though, he assumed these city rats didn’t have to be so thoroughly brined and cooked to remove all trace of the bloodshade weed swamp rats were so fond of. What really sold the meal was the sauce, thick and red like blood, he guessed it was wine-based and thickened with fig or date honey. It was sharp and bold enough to cut the fat, but sweet and mild enough to compliment the meat. He cleaned the rat to the bones and chased it with a strong ale in a paraffin-paper tankard.  
“So,” Edwin said to the rabbit-demon sitting across the table from him. “Where’s this ‘contact’ of yours?”  
“Around,” said Aloise, eyes hidden behind his pince-nez sunglasses. “He probably knew where we were zhe second we entered zhe city. His people will find us.”  
The rabbit looked distinctly out of place amongst the throng of the hoi-polloi, with his spotless white coat, red lamb-leather gloves, and tastefully coiffed pink hair, he stood out like a beacon in the sea of earth tones, ash grays, and grimy browns of the city-dwellers. “Hard not to.”  
“Zhank you.”  
“Anything I should know about him?”  
Aloise considered this for a moment, a pause Edwin decided meant that this person was either rich, dangerous, or both. Probably some noble, a lord of some stripe, someone to mind ones manners around.  
“He is a musician,” said Aloise, tilting his head back so that the glean on his glasses hid his eyes. “Of some note.”  
“Oh? I like music.”  
“Do you, now?”  
“Not really.”  
Aloise smirked at this. “Oh, but Eddie… maybe you just haven’t found zhe right music. Zhe right music can pull from you zhe very dredges of your soul. Zhe murky, hidden feelings dug up from zhe deep swamp, pink and naked, exposed to air for zhe first time in perhaps ever. Zhat is zhe power of music.”  
“That sounds…” Edwin considered his words carefully. “Awful. That sounds absolutely awful.”  
Aloise chuckled and leaned back, crossing his legs. “Well, try to keep such opinions to yourself before my contact. He’s a little… passionate regarding zhe subject.”  
Edwin started to formulate a question when a gloved hand covered in gold rings settled on his shoulder, the frilly white cuffs and vibrant blue silk sleeve practically glowed in the dingy light of the slum.  
‘They say no man can sneak up on a Marshlander,’ Edwin thought to himself, looking up the arm and into the black, empty eyes of its owner. ‘They’re right.’  
In overall shape and mannerisms, the thing touching him appeared to be a man, a foppish man in what must have passed for the top of high-court fashion in Great Caulden; black breeches, a blue silk overcoat with lace ruffles sprouting from every opening and, of course, one of those ridiculously overblown powdered wigs. But this was no man, for in place of a face it had a gilded porcelain opera mask, mouth and cheeks drawn up in a frozen rictus. Edwin could feel the cold, hard brass of its silk-shod fingertips as they dug into his shoulder. It stared at him with no eyes, nary a sound save for the smooth ‘whirr-click’ of its mechanism.   
An auton; brass and magic grafted into human form.  
“I hate this contact of yours already,” said Edwin, trying to wrest the hand from his shoulder.  
“You’re smarter zhan you look, Eddie,” Aloise said, grinning sharply.

The carriage-ride was smooth and silent, the body of the ornate carriage hovering over the wheels and suspension as they hopped and bumped over the rough-hewn cobblestones of the slum-road. Edwin and Aloise sat opposite a pair of silent statue-still autons, Edwin with his arms crossed, eyeing up the machines, and Aloise staring out the window, a glass of deep red wine in his hand. Edwin didn’t take his eyes off the machine-men for a second; he’d never trusted the soulless things and the queer deadzone in his senses they occupied. Marshlanders were so inundated with life and death, such creatures in limbo always set their teeth on edge. He was no exception.  
“If you’re trying to stare zhem down, I take back what I said earlier. May as well try and make a clock blink.”  
“I’m not trying to intimidate them. I’m just not taking my eyes off them,” Edwin said, glancing over at the rabbit. “Where are they taking us?”  
“To my contact.”  
“And where is that?”  
“Not here.”  
“Do you know where?”  
“I do.”  
“Are you going to tell me?”  
“No.”  
The carriage slowly worked its way out of the congested slums and into the main arteries of the city, from there the horses could pull the carriage along at a healthy trot towards the citadel, a glittering island of white stone and polished steel separated from the rest of Great Caulden save for a few thin bridges. The citadel was massive, a raised plateau scores of miles across and defined by dozens of marble towers at least as tall, stretching high into the sky. This was where the aristocracy lived; the rich, the powerful, the royal, all rubbed shoulders here amongst the clouds. The carriage set back down on its suspension, levitation spells no longer needed on the perfectly cut stone tiles that made up the streets here. Edwin gazed out at the sea of colors and frills that lined the marble-white streets. Aristos done up in enchanted fabrics that glowed and changed color, gold and platinum headpieces woven right into their elaborate wigs, some of which were charmed to appear as though consumed in rainbow fire. The colors and textures of the groups hurt Edwin’s eyes, it was all too much to process. He looked back to the rest of the city, the endless sea of black tiled roofs, grey brick, and flattening ashen plateaus of coal-smoke from countless chimneys. He thought of the people there, drab and humble, scraping by day to day. He longed to be back there. He turned back to see the carriage approaching a vast property, the grand mansion visible in the distance overtop the trees and lawns veiled by a strong-looking perimeter wall of perfectly chiseled stone. Part of Edwin wondered why these clowns didn’t just build everything straight out of gold. Or would that be tacky?  
The carriage rolled to a stop and the autons snapped to life, one opened the door and stepped out, standing motionless at the foot of the steps as though it were a bronze statue. The other locked them with an eyeless stare, gesturing at the open door in some uncanny attempt at deferential instruction. Edwin and Aloise complied and stepped out into the bright, clean air of the citadel. Edwin could tell from the coolness of the air that it had been magically drawn down from many miles up by the grand towers, high above the choking smog layer, dispersing the foul polluted air of the city away from the citadel. He also noted, with a modicum of disgust, that the cold sky-air had been perfumed with a mild lilac scent as well.

“There is nothing that could make me hate this place more,” Edwin grumbled as he turned around to face the estate of Aloise’s contact. He stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw, pale blue eyes snapping open wide. “Aloise. You didn’t.”  


“Now, Eddie…”

  
On the steel gate of the grand estate was a gilded sigil displaying a Griffon and a Chimera standing opposite one another, taloned paws raised high at a resplendent golden sun: the crest of the Solaran League.

“Eddie, listen–”

“I’m not working for the League!”

“He’s not part of zhe League!” Aloise said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Edwin waved his hand at the massive golden crest. “I’m seeing some pretty strong evidence to the contrary!”

“See, zhis is why I didn’t tell you…” Aloise put his hands together and inhaled slowly. “Look. He’s a court composer, a musician, he’s not one of zhose duplicitous aristocrats or crazy royals. Zhe man makes music, zhat’s all. He’s very rich and can get us some proper work. Eddie, I promise, no court intrigue. No feuds. No plots or schemes eizher.”

“No politics? No scandals?” Edwin ventured. “What about conspiracies?”

Aloise laughed nervously. “Please! What sort of conspiracies could a composer get up to?”

“I need you to kill someone.”

Edwin locked Aloise with a sideways glare, Aloise didn’t so much as flinch at the announcement, he simply stared impassively at their host. “Truzh be told, zhat’s not what I expected to hear, Your Excellency.”

Their host, a tall, wiry man of about fifty, rose to his feet, bejeweled hands folded neatly behind his back. “This is… an uncommon problem. My livelihood is at stake.”

Edwin looked about, while not as obnoxious as the rest of the citadel, this old composer certainly wasn’t hurting for money. The man himself, while clearly mindful of the quality of his ensemble, was dressed conservatively, almost austere in comparison to the circus of gold and silk walking the streets.

“You write music,” Edwin said. “If you’re good enough to live here, you’ll always find work.”

The Old Composer squinted at Edwin with a narrow wine-brown eye, turning to Aloise. “How much does he know?”

“Nozhing, Your Excellency.”

“I’ll have you know, marshlander, that I am Cyrano Lenscherr De Solto, Joy Bringer, Mood Crafter, Architect of Sorrow, and Court Composer Primaris of the Orchestra Obscurae.”

“Lovely titles,” Edwin deadpanned.

“Have you never heard of the Orchestra Obscurae?” Cyrano said, something like outrage in his burgundy stare.

Edwin had, of course; magicians who wrote music, weaving mood-charms into notes to enhance the feelings of the listeners. Or something. “Magic music. Makes people feel what you want.”

“Magic music! ‘Makes people feel’!” Cyrano scoffed. “It is nothing so crass. We of the order are dual masters of music and enchantment. It is a delicate balance, the enchantments merely enhance what is stirred by the music, the music must prompt the emotion first; the finest, strongest charms will fail if the music is wanting, and the charms must be perfectly crafted to the music for the desired effect. Push a feeling too strongly and the spell will invert, the opposite feeling will be enticed! Joy becomes rancor! Love becomes hate! Sorrow becomes merriment and tears, mirthful simpers! It is an exquisite and subtle art, and I will not hear it dismissed by some sodden bog-booter!”

“A strange thing to kill man over, don’t you think?” Edwin said to Aloise, ignoring Cyrano’s theatrics.

“Please forgive my recalcitrant friend’s ignorance and impudence, Your Excellency,” said Aloise, swatting Edwin’s shoulder. “Alzhough, I must share in his confusion. Who zhreatens your order so much zhat zhey must perish?”

Cyrano sighed and stooped over his fireplace, staring into the dancing flames. “Mercutio Zteerant Von Jesht, The Gift.”

Edwin’s eyebrow cocked at this; he had some understanding of the Solaran upper crust’s naming conventions. They tended to describe feats and deeds, or attributes assigned to them by peers and superiors. Rarely, if ever, did they ascribe to themselves or others such a blunt, matter-of-fact title of greatness.

As though reading his mind, Cyrano turned about. “For he is a gift. I am a genius, I can draw tears from stone and laughter from a bronze statue. I am gifted. Yet, The Gift is just that, a gift from the Gods. He weaves music the likes of which no one has nor likely ever will again. His works… transcend the art, the very mortal understanding of the soul. I’ve been blessed to see his manuscripts, free of correction or doubt; first, perfect drafts, as though he were taking dictation. It speaks through his pen, whatever it is inside of him. He is… divine.”

A tear rolled down his cheek.

“So why–?”

He spun about, gesturing all around him. “All that you see here! All of it! Because I am the Court Composer Primaris! Why would I be kept on with such a profound talent making itself known?

Either I have him removed, or face disgrace and destitution. It’s as simple as that.”

Edwin eyed the old composer for a moment, scanning his face for something, anything. It was a decent enough motive, if somewhat pedestrian. Something–though–something about this whole situation made his neck hairs stand on end. His exquisite instincts, honed by a lifetime in the moonlight swamps, told him one thing clearly: something was wrong, a vital piece of information was missing.

“Fair enough,” said Aloise, uncrossing his legs and standing up. “We will gazher our zhings and return post haste for zhe dossier.”

“Excellent.”

The carriage ride back was predictably icy, with Aloise fixing Edwin with his best concealed glare. Edwin could practically see frost forming on the dark lenses of his pince-nez sunglasses. To anyone else, the lapine would have seemed placid, pleased even, but Edwin knew he was lucky looks couldn’t kill or maim. The angle of his tall ears as they sat just a little too close together atop his head, the thinness of his glossy lips, narrow shoulders canted upwards along with the subtle clench of his wide hips. Oh yes, the bun was piqued.

“Well, we now have work,” Aloise stated. “Despite your best efforts.”

“It pays to be cautious,” said Edwin, looking out the window at the colorful menagerie strutting about the streets of the Citadel.

“It also pays to get paid,” Aloise said, pointedly. “Which we cannot do if you insult our patrons to zheir faces.”

“He’s no fool, that Cyrano.” Edwin turned to meet the rabbit’s frigid gaze with his own. “If he can see that this Gift as a threat, others can too. He’ll be the prime suspect when the chump turns up dead, and he’ll cover his tracks with our corpses.”

“Eddie–”

Edwin leaned in. “You know what they say about assassinations, don’t you?”

Aloise rolled his eyes behind tinted lenses. “Zhat for all zhe bodies you see, zhere’s one you don’t: zhe assassin’s.”

Edwin nodded and turned back to window, glad to see they were making their way back into the slum of Great Caulden. “There’s a reason I didn’t become an assassin. Gotta kill the target and then the guy sent to kill you. I’d blow half my pay on ammo.”  


Aloise chuckled; it was a hard, mirthless sound. “

You say all zhis like I don’t already know. I would not lead you into slaughter, Eddie. I have a plan.”  
‘Hy heff a plen,’ crooned Pik’s voice in Edwin’s head. “I bet you do.”

* * *

Pik looked up as they entered the hovel, her drying rack already festoon with ingredients ready to shrivel by the fire. She frowned and turned back to her work. “What’s the scowl for, Eddie? Someone finally pop your cherry?”

“I should have gone muck-diving,” Edwin grumbled, walking over to his rucksack and unpacking his weapons. “What kind of load-out are we looking at?”

“We’ll be in a music hall, most likely,” said Aloise, selecting his best throwing knives, stilettos, and dirks, tucking each into their expertly hidden sheaths all over his body. “Wizh zhat silver I can probably get us a seat in zhe nosebleeds. Your rifle will do for zhe business. Your knives and derringers will be best for zhe getting out part.”

“It’ll be tough getting my long-shot past security. Even in pieces.”

“Leave zhat to me,” said Aloise, winking. “I have my ways.”

“‘Hy Heff my hways’…” Pik echoed, giving a bras d’honneur and blowing a wet raspberry. “What are you getting my beautiful silver-haired concubine into?”

“Don’t worry about it, wench,” Aloise simpered, waving her off. “Busy zhat puggish little head of yours wizh zhe mold and slime. Leave zhe actual work to zhe menfolk.”

“You do work it hard,” said Pik, giving the impression of acquiescence. “And for so cheap, too!”

“Cheap?!”

“Hey, that reminds me,” Edwin interjected, trodding over yet another one of their bickering sessions. “What are we charging for this gig?”

“Negotiable.” Aloise counted off on his fingers. “A job like zhis could have many additional expenses; wardrobe fees for ruined or stained outfits, guard bribes, witness settlements, witness silencing (usually outsourced), reimbursement for necessary expenditures such as tickets, carriage rentals, food, etc. Once we review zhe dossier I’ll have a better idea of what to charge, zhen we negotiate zhe price before signing zhe contract.”

“Rentals? Wardrobe fees? We’re assassins, not sales reps!” Edwin rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised you haven’t been shot at the negotiation table.”

“I have,” said Aloise. “Several times. Do not worry, I’ve been across zhe table from Cyrano before, he knows what to expect.”

“Ballpark it for me.”

Aloise did some calculations in his head. “Forty Solaran gold dinars. Perhaps fifty, depending on zhe venue.”

Edwin nodded, not bad at all.

“Pssh!” Pik scoffed, turning back to her ingredients. “Get me the right peppers and I could pull a hundred gold dinars for a vial the size of your cock, Bunny Boy!”

“And you still couldn’t afford me,” Aloise sniped back, polishing his nails on his lapel. “You’d blow it all in a week on pretty boy-whores and shroom-beer.”

“Well, yeah?” Pik said, genuinely confounded. “That’s what gold’s for?”  


Edwin got to his feet and shouldered his bag, the sooner they get this over with the better. He didn’t doubt that Aloise knew what he was doing, these bloody courtroom intrigues were his bread and beer after all, but Edwin still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were walking into a reaver-wasp nest with a flutterfly net. “Alright, let’s go. Pik, if we’re not back by tomorrow…”

“Find some new rubes to swindle?”

“You got it.”

* * *

Another carriage ride with those ghastly autons later and they were once again at Cyrano’s estate, sitting across the table from the stately composer. Aloise flicked through the dossier, making soft murmuring sounds as he did. Edwin didn’t take his eyes off Cyrano, who returned the favor. Edwin knew he was holding something back, and Cyrano knew that he knew. And he was smiling. Edwin almost leapt out of his chair when Aloise closed the dossier with a resounding ‘clap’.

“Very informative,” said Aloise, pushing the pile of papers across the table. “But I did not see a listed venue.”

Cyrano’s smile widened. “There isn’t one.”

Aloise drummed his fingers on the desk. “How are we to kill zhis man? You wouldn’t need my connections or his guns for a domestic hit, you’ve plenty of local cutpurses for zhat sort of work.”

“You misunderstand. He’s not at a listed theater, but he will be on stage at the Greater Caulden East Central Park. He’s putting on a show for the rabble there…” His smile curdled as though he’d just caught a whiff of sewage. “…Gratis.”

“I see…” Aloise allowed the ghost of a frown to crease his delicate features.

“Oh ho ho ho!” Cyrano clapped his ringed hands together in amusement. “I’m afraid there will be no need for carriages, tailored suits, or fancy booth-seats this time around, my friend! I see you were aiming to pick up a new ensemble on my dinar, eh?”

“Yeah.” Edwin chuckled, turning to Aloise. “He’s worked with you before, alright.”

Aloise was definitely frowning now. 

The older man simpered and cooed, patting the Lapine’s gloved hand from across the table. “Now, now. Let’s not spoil that pretty face with pouts and moues. A hundred gold dinars for this work, an additional reward if you can procure for me some items.”

Edwin started in his seat, pale eyes wide. “A hundred?”

“Items?” Aloise ventured, seemingly unmoved by the generous sum. “Such as…?”

“Golden discs.” He held his hands apart some foot’s distance. “About this big. They’ll be somewhere in his mansion, most likely in his music room. I’d venture there are six of them, but if there are more, get them. Bring them to me in a timely, discreet manner, and you will be rewarded with an additional one-hundred gold dinars.”

Edwin gaped under his bandana, Aloise smirked and extended his hand. “You will have zhem by nightfall tomorrow.”

Cyrano took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “I knew I could count on you.”

With that, Edwin and Aloise excused themselves, the old composer waited until they were well away before he turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Follow them closely. Act on your discretion as the situation demands, but I must have those discs. Understood?”

A huge, towering figure, standing so still and so perfectly lifeless as to be mistaken for a marble statue, bowed with an uncanny grace, its posture melting into an inexplicably human slump. The figure that walked out the door did so as any man would, with little indicating its true nature save for a muted ‘whirr-click’ and the dense brass thud of its footsteps.

Edwin sat across from Aloise in the carriage, the unnerving silence of their metal companions underscoring the gulf between them. The flesh and blood occupants of the carriage jerked slightly as the carriage passed once again from the perfect roads of the Citadel to the rough hewn cobbles of the rest of the world. Edwin was still a bit tickled that Aloise was denied his shopping spree, and even more tickled at how the disappointment was still clear on the rabbit’s face. Less amusing was this job. His feelings on the work had gone from vague misgivings to roaring apprehensions. Aloise was a decadent fop to whom lies and pettiness came as easy as breathing, but Edwin trusted him when he said he knew his craft, whatever that was. He trusted Aloise’s prior assessment of the work’s pay to be based on experience, but then the old composer went and offered twice the upper end of the rabbit’s estimates for a job that, all told, should have cost far less. They were being paid a king’s ransom to shoot a man on a public stage, and offered another atop it should they nick some of his fancy composer trinkets.

He opened his mouth to say something when Aloise spoke. “Not here. Not now.”

Edwin turned to look at him and saw the tension in the rabbit’s shoulders; his ear twitched ever-so-subtly at the brass abomination in a silk jacket sitting opposite him.

Edwin put on a show of scoffing and throwing up his hands. “Fine! I guess you don’t want to hear that you were right! I was wrong! This job’s not the disaster I was expecting.”

“Oh, zhat?” Aloise smirked, playing along with Edwin’s charade. “I could hear zhat all day. Please, say it again, Eddie.”

“I’ll say it for you every day for a week once we get our gold.”

“Promise?”

East Central Park was an expanse of grass and trees some one hundred hectares in size, a splash of green and life that seemed almost absurdly out of place amongst the greys and blacks and mottled gradients thereof that made up the surrounding urban sprawl. It was a natural park, a hold-over from Great Caulden’s past, and as such was sunken down from street-level some thirty feet, the city having built up around it like a creeping mold, with numerous staircases leading down into the alien world of wood and leaf. The carriage lurched to a stop, the door swung open and the pair departed, quietly grateful to be away from the hollow, leering faces and watchful, eyeless pits of those autons. The second their boots hit the cobbles the carriage was away with a haste that suggested nervousness. Edwin turned around and gawped; before him was a mass of people, the park was teeming with people, thousands upon thousands of people. They were somewhat sparse near the edges, but closer to the center of the park they became denser and denser until, at the center, they covered every open space. Edwin had no mind for numbers, but even his basic, messy calculations estimated some fifty thousand had shown up for this gratis concert.

“Hm.” Aloise brushed past him and set down the stairs. “Seems zhat zhe word got out. Come along, Eddie.”

“Yeah…” Edwin muttered, following. “Is music this big a deal around here?”

“No, Eddie, zhey’re all here for zhe trees.” Aloise gestured towards the stage. “Zhis is a rare occasion for zhem. Usually, zhe Orchestra Obscurae is played in great halls and zheaters, venues zhat require silver for zhe most basic of seats. Zhat Zhe Gift is not only playing in a public amphezheater, but gratis as well, is nozhing short of unheard of. Such generosity!”

“Makes our job easier,” Edwin murmured, looking around at the increasingly dense crowd. “Provided we can get away without these people stringing us up.”

“You leave zhat to me,” said Aloise. “How close do you need to be?”

“Up in one of these trees, I can make the shot at 300 meters with my long-rifle.” Edwin sniffed and patted the bag at his side. “400 if he’s a fat-arse.”

Aloise nodded. “I’ll do a walk-about and plant some bangers all around so no-one will know where zhe shot comes from. Do not fire until I give zhe signal.”

They split up, as Aloise went about his work Edwin found himself a tall, sturdy-looking oak and clambered up into it. Straddling a large branch, he set about his work. He opened his rucksack and assembled his rifle. She was a beauty, a true marvel of engineering and craftsmanship, each piece custom-tooled to interlock and mesh finer than any timepiece. Such perfectly wrought pieces of art were reserved for only the most elite of warriors in the Solaran League, with the exception being the few vital ferrymen of the Moonlight Swamps, where long-range and firepower were most crucial to keep trade routes open. Seams vanished as hefty brass locks clicked together, oiled steel and polished oak merged to form her main body, the firing mechanism was wound and set, ready to fire. Edwin pulled the bolt back and chambered a test cartridge, upon pulling the trigger he heard the tell-tale ‘ping’ of carbon-steel hitting brass; the mechanism was in perfect working order. He chambered a live round and positioned the beautiful gun under his body, hidden from sight as he shimmied up the branch, looking to all the world like just another serf striving for a glimpse of The Gift.

“Hey there, stranger,” came a voice; Edwin looked over to see another city-dweller shuffling up the nearest adjacent branch. “This seat taken?”

Edwin attempted to formulate a response before giving up. His fist jabbed out in a flash, the knuckles and fingers of his gloves padded and weighted with pockets of powdered lead. The would-be observer’s head snapped to the side as the hefty fist connected with his jaw, sending him plummeting ten feet down to the ground.

Edwin looked down to a few other citizens he assumed was the onlooker’s friend. “Tree’s taken.”

They looked up at him, any and all rebuttal died in their throats upon meeting his steely-blue gaze; they gathered their friend and fled.

With that, Edwin resumed his journey out to the end of the limb, where a perfectly forked branch awaited, an ideal steadying crotch for his artful rifle to rest. His eyes darted about, looking for his cohort, eventually spying a pair of alabaster ears bobbing about the crowd, Edwin reckoned that Aloise would be done his work just in time for the–

The rising, melodic buzz of the orchestra tuning hushed the crowd. Floating lanterns snapped to life, illuminating the stage with pillars of light. Standing before the orchestra was a single man, his back to the crowd. Something low and instinctive told Edwin that this man was the only human up there, the rest of the orchestra were autons.

‘ _Good,_ ’ he thought, preparing his weapon. ‘ _No collateral damage._ ’

The man turned. Not a fat-arse, quite slim, in fact. Edwin adjusted his sights, keen eyes bridging the distance. The Gift was dressed in a red, gold-trimmed tailcoat, the frills at his wrists and collar made from some kind of metallic fabric; cobalt-spider silk, perhaps? His face was youthful but not handsome, and he wore a charmed tiara low on his forehead that projected a glamour, making it appear as though his eyebrows and hair were engulfed in writhing rainbow fire. He smirked and bowed deeply to the crowd, an act of deference that might have been condescending to the assembled rabble, but not even Edwin could parse insincerity from the man’s manner.

“Assembled citizens of Great Caulden!” He announced, his lightly accented, trilling voice clear as a silver bell across the din of the crowd. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you all here! There was… reticence from my peers when I announced this venue, but your presence shows me that, yes, the love for music is indelible to the soul, no matter the contents of one’s veins or purse! This concert will mark the beginning of a new age, an age where all can feel and hear the exquisite art I hold so dear! And now, without further ado, I bring you The Tragedy of Signa Minar, The Betrothed!”

The stage went dark, not even The Gift’s flaming headpiece could be seen, as inhuman orchestra weaved its wares, the air filled with sounds. Two autons stepped forward into circles of light, one in a dress, the other in a soldier’s livery, their impressions of human movement so fine as to fool the assorted city-dwellers, but sent a cold ripple of revulsion crawling up Edwin’s spine. The female abomination, its opera-mask face a rictus of joy, raised a hand and broke into a dainty pirouette that shifted seamlessly to doe-like bounds. The music sweetened, warming the air like the summer sun through the morning clouds, it was the sound of innocent contentment. A sigh rose from the crowd as the female… the woman on stage danced and basked in music that could only be her joy given sound.

Edwin recalled such times, long forgotten, the smell of freshly baked bread, his pudgy little feet clapped on the cobbles of a kitchen (?) as he stumbled towards… someone? A woman? Safety. He stumbled not for drink or pipe, but for inexperience. He was quite young and unsure on his feet, but the smell set him to that shambling shuffle that, in a few years time, would become a sprint. The memory sputtered as he approached her. Big hands and strong arms. Laughter like warm silk on his soul. The taste of strawberry jam. A kiss on his tiny lips, feather-light and suffused with love.

He was pulled back into the moment when the dancer missed a step, the music became urgent, metallic with panic. The crowd gasped, the spell of joy broken. Edwin found himself once again aware of the stage, the things upon it, but for a moment found himself worried. Worried? This was no dancer who could roll an ankle or know mortification at her blunder. It was a malfunctioning machine. The female auton stumbled and made to fall when a masculine pair of arms scooped it out of its destiny with the ground, elegantly pulling it into a dip. The male auton, dressed like a soldier, its face a stoic mask of a Solaran warrior. The music rose in heroic notes, feelings of security and wry amusement. The feminine notes squeaked through, embarrassment and excitement in equal measure. She broke away from him, curtsying and recoiling exactly as much as was proper, her music simpering and coy. The Soldier, notes amused and confident, shot into a salute. He was a tall, well-built man, impressive and stalwart, but clearly tickled and her fumbling attempts at maintaining her noble countenance. He bowed, her secret was safe with him.

More memories, clear now, of a woman of dignity and poise. But this woman was no lady of the court, but a soldier, an officer. His officer. He recalled her well-hidden embarrassment, his own wry amusement. He was smiling there, in the tree, as he had been then. He had caught her going through a private routine, witnessed her secret missteps that would have never occurred had she known she was performing for an audience. The music that played for the Soldier and the Lady passed between them all those years ago, the understanding.

The Lady stepped forward and engaged the Soldier in dance. The music, like them, started out formal, an exchange between two who, despite their best efforts, would never again be true strangers. As the dance progressed, so too did the music, step-in-step with their movements, their body language, formality and ceremony giving way to raw emotion. The courtship blossomed seamlessly as their professional fronts waned and dissolved. The dance went from distant and assembled to passionate and intimate, their love bubbling up through the rigid formal notes like spring water seeping from beneath a flawless Citadel road, the former structure of which now obscured, drowned.

A single night under the silver light of the Moonlight Swamps, their breath hanging in the cool air mingled as their bodies connected. Low, sweet whispers and needful pants. Rank and order and structure washed away in a single, interminable wave of passion. Edwin was dimly aware of the erection straining against his pants, pressed against the limb of the oak he straddled. The rifle in his hands for a brief moment was warm and supple as flesh, his hands remembering the shape of a woman, his woman, as he handled her as dutifully and skillfully as he handled the tools of his trade. The low, pulsing music was almost erotic save for the delicate, perfect underscores of something else, something intangible.

The music wound down and so too did the actors, machines once more, but only to Edwin’s senses, the audience was enraptured with their… love? Between machines? Edwin was suddenly and acutely aware of his arousal, of his thundering heart, his longing. Was this the spellery of the Orchestra Obscurae he’d heard of? He’d been bewitched before, trespassed by potions and succubi, but this was something else entirely. Compared to this subtle and delicate art, the plying of those pedestrian manipulators was like comparing a massage to a back-alley thrashing. 

His legs were asleep. From his experience as a sharpshooter he could tell from tingling and needling he’d been stationary for at least an hour. Had it really been that long? He looked around for Aloise, shocked at the realization that it was now fully dark, the late afternoon having long since slipped into night. Longer than an hour. Though disoriented, he could still see the white ears standing out from the crowd. Subtle movements and the way they sat told him the lapine was in no rush, the signal to fire would not yet be issued for quite some time. It dawned on Edwin, with an increasing sense of unease, that Aloise may just make him sit through the whole bloody thing. From love to… what had The Gift called this work?

_The Tragedy Of Signa Minar, The Betrothed_.

Oh, no.

* * *

Aloise sighed and basked in the afterglow; Cyrano was right, this lad was a gift from the Gods! He was no stranger to all manner of mood-magic, be it induced from potions (usually lust) or imposed by succubi (also lust), but he’d never felt such subtle and natural-feeling para-emotions as he had while listening to The Gift’s work. They flowed and ebbed and surged in ways so organic and complementary to the mood established by the music and dance as to be mistaken for his own, as though the performance was prompting the reaction naturally. Truly, a peerless experience.

“No wonder he wants zhis lad dead,” Aloise muttered under his breath.

Aloise reared up on his toes, straightening his digitigrade legs and adding a full foot to his height, peering over the heads of the crowd. He spied the tree Edwin had taken up residence in, his supernatural eyes catching the gleam of the polished carbon-steel of his rifle: he was in position and await the signal to fire. Aloise looked down at the trigger in his hand, a simple aether-switch would set off the various cracklers he’d set up all over the park. To the enraptured show-goers it would appear to all the world like a fireworks display, a loud, bright denouement. Until the composer keeled over dead, that is. By the time anyone knew any better, he and Edwin would be off to The Gift’s estate to plunder his treasures. Easy money.

The second act started up and the crowd went quiet, low dulcet tones of contentment filled the air as the ‘actors’ played their parts. Aloise saw the cavalier love in the movements of the autons, noting dimly that their proximity to natural movement was yet another facet of this show he had nothing but praise for, it was only by way of his aurascrye that he knew they were unnatural. The music did its job following their movement, backdropping it with warm, vibrant notes that never quite boiled over into effusive love, rather hinting at it in the way true love generally presents itself. The magic did its job, so well in fact he once again actually had to concentrate to notice it, unheard of for an aetherling. Aloise allowed himself to be taken along with the show, secretly tickled that he was witnessing The Gift’s last live performance, a feather in his cap to be sure. ‘ _Sorry, my boy, but gold is gold. Besides, an artist is only truly successful after zhey’ve died! You’re welcome._ ’

The show carried on, the tone slowly becoming more melancholic when the Soldier, as he must, leaves for war, but not before marrying the Lady Signa and bedding her in a dance so subtly erotic as to be artful. Aloise spied tight trousers and squeezed thighs all about him, flushed faces and heavy panting surrounded the lapine. It dawned on him that a mood-magician of The Gift’s caliber could quite easily set off an orgy with but the slightest effort. Aloise, for the most part, could allow himself to be taken along by the music, allowing it to carry him with it without letting it in. But this love scene, this undercurrent of lust, rasped across his soul like a cat’s tongue, pulling something out from within. His thoughts became muddled, a heady rush burned through him, partially the magic, partially… something else. All he could think about was Edwin, with his flat, dry manner of speech, his cool, glacier-blue eyes, his perfect bone-structure hidden beneath his scarf, all the more alluring for the mystery.

He gave his head a little shake and walled himself out of the spell. The Gift was good. Oh yes, very good indeed.

The story was predictable, despite the exquisite music and dancing, the conflict and ending obvious by the beginning of the second act, but the audience, deprived of even the most pedestrian of storytelling, were riveted to every plot point and turn. The longing of the soon-to-be widow was their longing, her melancholy their melancholy, and when the news broke of the Soldier’s heroic death on the battlefield a veritable pall fell over the park. Tears flowed, wails of sorrow filled the air in places, The Gift had them where he wanted them. Aloise floated atop the sea of emotion the magic and performance brought forth, careful not to allow it too much purchase lest he become distracted. Of course, the story would extoll the virtues of the Solaran Empire and the widow was given a generous stipend on which to live, and her little romp with the Soldier had put a child in her belly, of course. A bittersweet ending if ever there was one.

Aloise was eager to get this job over with, free show or not he was not fond of being so effortlessly toyed with, and by a mortal no less!

“And with that, my beloved audience!” The Gift announced, leading his mechanical dancers and orchestra through a bow. “I must bid you all farewell! I can only hope that I’ve instilled in you all a deeper appreciation of music and, I hope, a hunger for the wares of the Orchestra Obscurae, for it is your right as citizens of the Empire to partake in such joys, sorrows, and _hungers_.” He punctuated the last word with a suggestive thrust of the hips, prompting the crowd to roar with laughter. “My next show will be in the North Park this following month, I will be doing a gratis tour of the city from now until the end of summer. I hope to see you all there!”

With that, Aloise pressed the switch and the cracklers went off, spewing sparks and bursts of light into the air with a splitting, crackling staccato. Aloise’s deft ears would be able to parse the report of a rifle through the noise, a frown forming on his face as the crackling died down without so much as the dull pop of a dud. 

Aloise looked up at the stage and saw the Gift, surprised by the display. His face broke into a smile as he led his metal entourage through another bow. “Why, thank you East Caulden! You’ve been a delight!”

“Edwin…” Aloise growled, pushing through the crowd.

The city-folk milled about, enthusiastically discussing the show, their excitement would have been endearing to Aloise were it not for more pressing matters. His needle-sharp teeth grit together, Edwin better have a damn good explanation for not taking the shot! 

He approached the tree his cohort was laying in, even to a relative neophyte such as himself Aloise could tell that this vantage point was almost perfect. Clustered around the base of the tree were a few young peasant maidens, something like adoration mixed with worry on their plain, youthful faces.

“Eddie!” Aloise barked, drawing their attention. “Eddie, what–?!”

The girls broke away to reveal Edwin stooped at the trunk, his hat off, silver hair spilling over his face. He looked up, his piercing blue eyes red and harrowed. It took Aloise a moment to realized that he’d been… _crying_? The look in his eyes was that of a man who’d never left the battlefield, who stayed there in his heart until something brought the memory back up like trawlers plumbing the ocean, dredging up horrors.

“The show really got to him, sir,” said one of the girls, kneeling down and pulling him into a hug. “A tender heart feels His Excellency’s craft much more.”

“We’ve been trying to console him,” another lass said, taking perch on his other side, joining the hug. “Poor, poor Eddie.”

The other two joined in the cooing, placating pile, Aloise’s lip curled over his fangs in disgust. He flicked his wrist and produced a poignard, its polished steel blade catching the dim park lights. “Bitches, leave.”

The peasant girls squawked and scattered like disturbed hens, clucking indignantly. Aloise put the knife away and looked down at Edwin, internally grateful that, even in his present state, he had the good sense to dismantle and pack away his rifle. If any of those crones-to-be had gotten handsy, they likely would have discovered it along with his vast array of other weapons. Aloise sighed and sat down next to his silent, shellshocked companion.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No,” said Edwin, not looking at him. “The magic just got to me is all…”

Aloise sighed and rubbed his temples; he couldn’t have guessed that Edwin would have been so susceptible to The Gift’s wares, but then again, they’d almost snuck up on Aloise himself. And who knew what lie beneath that placid, cool exterior? Aloise found himself thankful that Edwin hadn’t taken the shot, who knows what could have happened?

“Well,” Aloise began, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “What–I–you…”

“I couldn’t keep it together…” Edwin muttered. “It was too… too real. Awful. Just awful.”

Aloise sighed and nodded. “I admit, I was not prepared for zhis level of skill. It was my fault, Eddie.”

“No…” he shook his head. “I should have been able to keep my head on my shoulders. Should have–”

“Shhhh…” Aloise set his gloved finger on Edwin’s covered lips. “No. You made zhe right call. Going zhrough wizh it while in, er, your current state could have made zhings much worse. We can still get him.”

Edwin looked up. “We can?”

Aloise nodded and winked. “Follow me.”

The elaborately dressed autons set about their tasks as they were assigned, packing the various instruments away with ruthless efficiency. The Lady Signa and the Soldier busied themselves with packing the floating lamps, their touted love gone from their motions as they thoughtlessly set about their work. The Lady Signa stood up, turning to the freight carriage that would sally them to their master’s estate, where they would stay until the next concerto. A narrow steel blade slipped under the crux of her jaw, severing her automata-cognita from the rest of her body, rendering the auton inoperative. The Soldier, unaware of his love’s untimely demise, made to do the same when a pair of steely fingers grasped its head and, with a clean jerk, wrenched its connective cables loose. Aloise and Edwin wasted no time shuffling the dead machines out of sight, deftly and hurriedly donning their costumes. The newly revived Soldier and Lady resumed their duties of ferrying cargo, the Soldier quietly and deftly tucked a stray ear under the Lady’s powdered wig, taking time to add a few more notches onto her bodice and delivering an open handed slap to her rear when he was done.  


The Lady was less than amused.

Their work completed, the two lovers filed into the freight wagon with the rest of the autons and were off to their master’s estate.

* * *

  
The Gift hummed jauntily to himself as he sat at his beauty-station, removing his headpiece and setting it on the wig-holder. He rubbed his clean-shaven head with a bejeweled hand, licking his thumb and smoothing out his eyebrows. He could see their faces, his audience, full of wonder and joy, and a hunger for more. His decision had not made him any friends among his peers, but he was sure that he laid the seeds of a new era of music amongst the long-discarded arena of the masses.

“I suppose you’re here to kill me, then?”

The two autons, the stars of his gratis show, stood astride the door, they glanced at each other.

“I authored every movement, every subtle gesture of the _expensive_ machines you no doubt trampled to get here.” He chuckled, genuinely tickled. “Although, I do find it gratifying that you enjoyed the show so much as to let me finish.”

“That’s not–” The Soldier began to say.

The Gift raised his hand, silencing him. “Tell me, was it Cyrano? It was Cyrano, wasn’t it?”

“His Excellency sends his regards,” the Lady said in a decidedly unfeminine voice, rose eyes glowing beneath the opera mask, the glint of fangs visible within the rictus grin. “You should be flattered. He zhinks much of your skill and talent. Tears were shed.”

“That old fool,” The Gift sneered, getting to his feet. “What did he tell you? His position is at stake? He fears my talent? Would it interest you to know that I deflowered Grand Duke Cartrass’ son? I could never be Court Composer Primaris, too much potential for scandal.”

“Zhat _is_ interesting,” the Lady Signa said, amused. “Changes nozhing.”

The Gift rolled his eyes. “How much is he paying you?”

“A hundred gold dinars,” the Soldier grunted.

“I’m flattered,” The Gift cooed, tapping his glossy lips with a gilded finger. “Tell me, did he ask anything else of you? The retrieval of certain… artifacts?”

“Enough of zhis,” The Lady scoffed, starting forward with a long, thin dagger.

“Aloise, wait.” The Soldier grabbed him by the shoulder and held him in place, causing the wig to tumble to the floor, revealing alabaster lapine ears and a shock of rose-colored hair. “Golden discs. Six of them.”

“Oh, of course…” The Gift made his way over to an armored chest. “A moment please.”

“Eddie, what are you doing?!” ‘Aloise’ hissed.

‘Eddie’ reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing a face that was itself masked with a scarf. “Saving our lives.”

“Listen to your lover, Lady Signa, he speaks true.” The Gift opened the chest and an elaborate display unfolded, revealing six golden discs in crystal glass domes. “Behold, my life’s work. Six discs, each composed of an electrum alloy that not only conducts magic flawlessly, but stores it. Inscribed upon the surface of each disc is the purified essence of each emotion. Anger, fear, happiness, sadness, love, and lust. The combination of any or all of these form the basis of all feeling!”

“Fascinating,” Aloise said, flatly. “Oh, do go on, please.”

“Don’t you see?” The Gift said, turning to face them, a disc in his hands. “This is what Cyrano fears! What they all fear! I just played an entire orchestra with autons, blasphemy to my peers, but even that is but a pale shadow of what I can do with these! Install these six discs into an automatic spell-reader the likes of which found in any home across all Great Caulden.” He demonstrated, setting the disc into a spellreader on his desk, before turning back to them, eyes alight. “And any book, any play, any music at all becomes the Orchestra Obscurae! An experience that costs gold could be repeated again and again and again for mere silver! With this I can spread my art like never before!”

Aloise looked over at Eddie, who shot him a wry glance before stepping forward. “So, he wants you dead so he can steal your idea and make bank?”

“Or bury it. The Ol’ Architect is a snobbish traditionalist, after all.” The Gift shrugged. “So, what do you say?”

“Well, all zhe intrigue and such is terribly interesting,” said Aloise, brandishing his knife. “But, we have a reputation to uphold, and a contract is a contract is a contract. You know how it is.”

“B-but he will kill you to keep this secret!”

“And you gave us a heads-up on that betrayal,” said Eddie, pulling out a derringer. “Much obliged.”

The Gift discreetly depressed the button on the spell-reader and the disc silently began to spin. He faced his would-be assassins with a magnanimous smile, his hands open in front of him. “If that is how it must be, it must be. I am a Solaran man of means, therefore I am behooved to face death with dignity. But please, may I die listening to my music? I just last week wrote a wonderful piece for my foray into the greater market.”

Eddie glanced over at Aloise, who smiled and shrugged. “Oh, what zhe hell. Who am I to say no to anozher free show?”

“Quite right.” The Gift clapped his hands and an auton wielding a cello appeared from his closet. “Play ‘ _An Ode to the Flesh_ ’, if you will.”

The auton did, the instrument in its hands thrummed with low, syrupy notes, soft and sweet but pleasingly, carnally bass. The Gift knelt and knit his fingers together as though praying to the Gods. Aloise walked up behind him, dagger on one hand, waving in turn with the dulcet tones of the cello with another.

“It’s always nice to meet a fan of my work,” said The Gift, allowing a smile to spread across his face. “That my music can have so… profound an effect on even a hardened killer is most gratifying.”

“You flatter yourself, Your Excellency,” said Aloise, the tip of his dagger pressed against the kneeling man’s throat. “I get a good kick out of your wares, nozhing more.”

“I wasn’t talking to _you_ , Aetherling.”

Aloise blinked and turned about, seeing Eddie standing, hunched over, flanks heaving. “Eddie? …Edwin?”

Edwin started forward, his breath coming out in raspy puffs as the music played. He grabbed the lapine’s wrists and pushed him across the room, pinning him to a nearby wall.

“Any sensible person would have shot me on stage, and you’re no sharpshooter, daemon.” The Gift got to his feet with a leisurely air, his eyes glinting. “From the moment I laid eyes on your friend, I could see his feelings for you. Many of which were deadened, burnt out, unfortunately. All but one.” He tapped the spellreader playing one of his discs. “Lust.”

“Edwin! Snap out of it!” Aloise said, trying not to meet the shining blue eyes that leered out from under his hat. “Edwin!”

“You’re stronger than most, but I know an incubus when I see one, so imagine my elation to see his feelings are returned.”

Edwin pulled down his mask, his features obscured to the conductor for a second later he was burying his face in the soft, fluffy neck of the rabbit, his teeth scraping sensually across skin and fur. Aloise’s eyes shot open wide and The Gift could practically see his magic take inexorable hold in the lusty daemon’s soul. His music continued to play, the intensity bubbled a percolating, erotic tempo as his would-be assassins lost themselves in each other.

“Ah, but it seems that I’ll have to craft another lust-disc.” The Gift muttered to himself as he shuffled his other discs into a carrying case. “Gracious, these things are heavy–oh, don’t get up. By all means, indulge! Thank you for bungling this job of yours, you’ve confirmed my suspicions and redoubled my resolve. The constabulary will be by shortly and you will hang on the morrow, so please, do enjoy yourselves. I’ll be off, now, good day!”

The Gift made his exit as the moans and pants of his enraptured guests filled the room. He skipped jauntily down the hall, placid-faced despite the snarling, vengeful thoughts racing through his mind. ‘ _Oh, Cyrano, you doddering old fool… I’ll play for you a concerto so great and terrible, you’ll welcome Hell!_ ’

So caught up in his fantasies of revenge, The Gift did not have time to react when one of his many towering sculptures stepped off its pedestal and out in front of him. He walked headlong into its broad chest, forehead bouncing painfully off of a solid brass plate clad in a silk velour jacket.

“Oof! What is the meaning of–” The Gift exclaimed as he stumbled back, staring up at the huge figure taking up much of the hall. “…You’re not one of mine.”

One of its large, gloved hands reached out in a flash, taking hold of his neck in an implacable, metal grasp. The Gift managed a small squeak of fear before his airway was crushed shut. The imposing figure effortlessly hauled the short, squirming man into the air and squeezed. A string of wet pops and low, meaty crunches echoed in the hall as the inhumanly strong fingers pressed in, only stopping when the thumb and middle finger met amidst the crushed remains of The Gift’s vertebrae. The satchel was taken and the corpse was cast aside. Its job complete, the brass giant set off down the hall.

The Gift’s music played still, echoing down the hall along with the moans and gasps of those still in its thrall.

* * *

Aloise watched as The Gift made his speedy exit. The little toad was on about something in that affected cavalier friendliness that seemed to be in vogue with the Caulden upper crust. Part of him wanted to scramble after him, to slit his scrawny throat and bring his head and his discs back to Cyrano. Part of him was screaming at him to get up and earn that reward. But then Edwin wove his steely fingers in among the stolen bodice and, with a low, almost bestial grunt, tore it apart, yanking him out of the dress. The Gift could wait. A couple hundred gold dinars was great and all, but when would he ever get to see Edwin like this again? Raw, unbidden, _passionate_.

Aloise was dimly aware that The Gift’s magic also probably had something to do with it.

He almost managed some outrage at being so crassly played by a mortal when Edwin ground his hips against his, erection straining against his pants, fingers hooking under the waist of his expensive cotton pants, preparing to tear.

“No!” Aloise squeaked, reaching down and sliding his hands under the waist. “Stop!”

He set his hands on Edwin’s chest and gave him a hard shove, sending him toppling over backwards. In a smooth, practiced motion he slid out of his pants, much easier than their form-fitting appearance would have led one to believe. He doffed his top in a similar fashion, quickly getting his expensive ensemble away from the impaired marshlander, neatly folding them and setting them a safe distance away. He turned back to Edwin, getting on his hands and knees and crawling towards the panting man, short tail wiggling over his bare rump.

“Oh, Eddie~” he purred, gently parting his legs, nestling his head between them. “And here I zhought you were just shy…”

His skilled, efficient hands undid Edwin’s buckle and opened his breaches in what looked to be a single motion. Edwin’s cock sprung out, tapping Aloise on the chin. Edwin shuddered as the lapine took his member into his mouth. Aloise looked up at Edwin, shooting him a wink as he he swallowed his shaft. The Marshlander’s steely fingers wove through his pink locks, grasping his head about the ears.

“Domp meph op muh ‘air!” 

Edwin grunted and hilted himself in the rabbit’s soft, warm mouth, the skilled tongue and throat massaging and caressing. Even in his impaired state Edwin had enough presence of mind to not push his luck with the array of pointy fangs that now ringed the base of his member. Aloise bobbed his head, picking up the pace while expertly applying the perfect amount of pressure with his fangs, gently rasping his companion’s delicate, sensitive flesh. Edwin’s fingers dug into his scalp as his pants became rapid, urgent, his clear blue eyes desperate with need. Aloise smirked around his cock, eyes burning into Edwin’s. Edwin’s hips bucked as he came, sending pulse after pulse of essence down the incubi’s hungry throat. Aloise withdrew the still-spurting organ, a splash of white streaking across his upturned face.

“Well, I hope zhat let off some steam, eh?” Aloise said, long tongue licking the cum off his face. “Perhaps we could get after our quarry n–”

Edwin lunged forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around before pressing his face into the soft bearskin rug on the floor, his rump in the air.

“I was hoping you’d say zhat…” Aloise simpered, grinning sharply as his tail wagged beckoningly.

Aloise gasped as he felt a familiar warm pressure against his opening and bit his lip. Edwin thrust forward and loosed a shuddering gasp, hilting himself in the rabbit’s hot, tight insides. Aloise sighed into the bearskin, grabbing handfuls of fur as Edwin increased his tempo, thrusting with an almost frantic energy, desperate for release. The sound of their hips clapping together filled the air, backdropped by the low, erotic notes of the cello as the auton played on mindlessly. Edwin looped his arm up under Aloise’ arm and around his chest, hauling them both into an upright position, his hips grinding into the smaller lapine. Aloise gasped, waves of pleasure shooting through him as Edwin rubbed roughly against his sensitive inner walls, his own cock springing to life. Edwin leaned his head over his shorter lover’s shoulder, gently biting at the nape of his neck, teeth scraping against his skin. At the same moment his rough, calloused hand reached down and took the rabbit’s member in a firm grip, pumping his modest length. Aloise moaned and reached back, stroking Edwin’s stubbly cheek, whispering breathy encouragements into his ear. Before long, Edwin’s breathing quickened, he leaned into Aloise’s back, pinning him against a nearby desk. His thrusts were hard and desperate, but he still managed to keep his rhythm while pumping Aloise’s cock, the willowy lapine moaned and panted as Edwin buried himself to the hilt once more and groaned throatily, his cock twitching as he came. Pulse after pulse of warmth spread through Aloise’s insides, sending the rabbit over the edge, he moaned and squeaked, hips bucking forward as long strands of white cum splashed across the dark mahogany of the desk he was pressed against.

“W-well…” Aloise panted, basking in the afterglow as Edwin withdrew from him. “Zhat was incredible, Eddie. But we really should get back to–”

Edwin stood them both up and, with a small grunt of effort, plucked Aloise off the ground and set him down on the desktop, pulling his legs open, his still-hard cock twitching and glistening as he lined himself up with the incubus.

Aloise bit his lip and allowed himself a moment’s contemplation, but sighed and shook his head. “No, no… I’m a professional.”

With that he reached up the desk and shoved the spell-reader over the side. The heavy mechanism crashed to the floor, the unmistakable crack of delicate mechanisms and the twang of springs as they sprang from their housings marked the abrupt end of the smothering miasma of lust that had filled the room. The auton continued to play.

Edwin blinked and looked around, eyes darting down to his rapidly wilting erection. He cleared his throat and stowed himself away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, that was… yeah.”

Aloise smirked and chuckled, sitting himself up on the desk, playfully kicking Edwin’s leg. “So… has zhis whole experience sweetened your opinion on zhe Orchestra Obscurae?”

The roar of a doubled-barreled sawn-off coachgun split the air, the auton with the cello was sent flying backwards, its instrument rendered unto splinters and its chestplate a crumpled ruin of shredded metal. Edwin popped two smoking cartridges out of the coachgun, pocketing them and producing two more. He reloaded the coachgun and stormed off towards the door.

Aloise smiled and hopped off the desk, collecting his clothes from the floor. “Oh, he is so coy…”

Edwin and Aloise peeked out of the room, scanning the dark hallway for any servants or, more pressingly, constables The Gift may have summoned. Upon seeing none, they stepped out, Edwin’s nose curling at a familiar smell.

“Well, he hasn’t called zhe tinhats yet, so zhere’s zhat.” Aloise sighed and rubbed his temples. “Who knew killing a musician could be so difficult? Zhere’s still a way, zhough. Zhe dossier mentioned he owned property in East Caulden, where he would take his catamites and boy-whores when zhe tabloids were sniffing about his estate. It may take some time, but I’m confident zhat if we chat a up a few of zhe fellows of zhe night around his place, we can find him and set up an ambush.”

“Found him,” said Edwin, pointing a lump on the floor in the dark hallway. “I thought I smelled dead guy.”

Aloise rushed over and examined the body; it was The Gift alright, face bloated and purple, rivulets of blood tricking from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His head hung at an odd angle, his neck had been crushed so thoroughly he’d nearly been decapitated. Whoever had done this must have been inhumanly strong.

“Ah, well,” said Aloise, clearing his throat. “Zhat solves zhat problem. Come, Eddie, let’s go get paid.”

“You’re not at all curious as to who killed him?”

“Whatever are you talking about, Eddie?” Aloise said, winking. “We killed him.”

Edwin gestured at The Gift’s mangled neck. “But–”

“We killed him but could not find all zhe discs. I suppose only a hundred gold dinars will do.” Aloise sighed, shrugging. “Oh, well!”

“That, or Cyrano sent another assassin just to be on the safe side,” said Edwin, clapping his hand to his forehead. “Now The Gift is dead, the discs are gone, and we won’t get paid! This whole thing has been a huge waste of time!”

“Not a complete waste.” Aloise smiled a sharp smile and held up the lust-disc. “Cyrano will pay for a full set, I’m sure. Eizher way, I’m getting my gold! Now, let’s go, just in case our fellow assassin set us up to take zhe fall.”

“I should have gone mushroom hunting,” said Edwin, following after the jaunty rabbit.

* * *

Cyrano locked them with rueful, burgundy eyes from across his hand-carved mahogany table, ringed fingers knit together in front of his thin-lipped mouth.

“So,” he said. “The Gift is dead.”

“Zhe Gift is dead,” Aloise said, smiling brightly.

“And how did he die, if may I ask?”

Edwin broke in. “Breathing difficulty.”

Cyrano arched an eyebrow. “So, you made it looked like an accident?”

“Ahh…” Edwin glanced at Aloise, who shrugged. “No.”

He tapped his temple, eyebrows arched. “And the discs?”

“Missing, unfortunately.” Aloise sighed in a maudlin fashion. “Alas, a fortune is gained or lost but for zhe grace of zhe Gods.”

Cyrano tapped a finger on the desk, a crease in his brow. “Are you sure you couldn’t find the discs? You hardly could have missed them! Six of them? Gold? In a big satchel?” He reached under his desk and, with a grunt, set a satchel on the table, opening it to reveal five golden discs, a wry smile on his face. “Like this?”

Aloise and Edwin exchanged glances, Edwin shook his head and sighed as Aloise tapped his chin in contemplation. “Now zhat you mention it, zhat rings a bell.”

“Please, tell me,” Cyrano hissed, leaning forward. “Where is the sixth disc?”

Aloise grinned toothily and produced the electrum discus and spun it on his finger. “Well, would you look at zhat! And here I zhought zhis was a coiiiin. I’d be willing to trade zhis big gold coin for, say, two hundred smaller ones?”

“Hm.” Cyrano smiled, his wine-red eyes glinting in the low, flickering gas-light like tarnished rubies, his smile hard and humorless. “May I present a counter-proposal?”

A low, whirring click sounded behind them. Heavy, gloved hands set down on their shoulders, hard brass fingertips squeezed with just enough pressure to be uncomfortable, but held a shadow of the true enormous strength within. Standing behind them was an enormous auton, the hard angles and robust engineering of its frame poorly hidden under haut Caulden fashion, on its face was a scowling theater mask, lent a slightly ridiculous air by the enormous powdered wid atop its head. Aloise glanced at Edwin, making a hidden ‘gun’ gesture and arching an eyebrow at the towering auton. Edwin shook his head and nudged towards Cyrano before winking.

“After much consideration, I have elected to accept His Excellency’s zhoughtful and magnanimous counter-proposal.” Aloise moved to grab the disc still spinning on his finger, cursing softly in his native tongue when it wobbled, toppled, and tumbled to the floor with a heavy ‘clunk’. “How clumsy of me.”

Cyrano glared at the rabbit, already weighing his options. Calculations buzzed behind his eyes. “Pick that up, will you?”

Aloise nodded and bent over, the auton’s hand releasing his shoulder. As he bent over, he adroitly slipped the stiletto affixed to his calf up his sleeve. He slowly sat back up, holding up the disc, letting it shine in the light. “See? No funny business.”

Cyrano’s eyes lit up upon seeing the word inscribed on the disc, a wry smile on his face. “Lust. Of course! He truly was a genius. Give it to me.” 

“You heard the man,” said Edwin, smirking. “Let him have it.”

With a flick of the wrist, Aloise sent the heavy metal disc streaking through the air, the narrow edge of it connecting with Cyrano’s nose with a low crunch. The old composer grunted as his head snapped back. In the same instant, Aloise jabbed the deadly little blade into the elbow joint of the auton, the steely hand on Edwin’s shoulder went slack. The auton reacted by reaching up and grabbing the lapine by the back of the neck, a whir and a click and Aloise’s head wrenched to the side with a loud snap. The auton hurled the limp body across the room, where it smashed into the glass and wood chifforobe. It then turned its attention to Edwin, who already had a sawnoff coach-gun leveled at it. It lunged at him, remaining hand outstretched, reaching for the weapon.

“I really do hate autons.”

The coach-gun roared and bellowed smoke, high-gauge lead pellets smashed into the outstretched hand, obliterating it utterly. The auton examined the sparking, jagged brass shards that used to be its fingers and palm before resuming its advance on Edwin. The bogbooter cocked the coach-gun and unloaded the second barrel into the machine, aiming higher this time. The mask shattered in a cloud of paint and plaster, the wig went sailing though the air, a lead pellet caught in its heavy weave of horse hair. The auton’s head, looking to all the world like a dented, scuffed wig-stand, locked Edwin with an eyeless glare and charged him.

  
‘ _Well, at least its hands are out of the picture,_ ’ thought Edwin as he drew two flintlock pistols. ‘ _And my load-out is focused on CQC, I should be able to–_ ’

The pistols cracked and acrid gunsmoke filled the air, the shots slammed into its armored chest, lodging in the auton’s thick breastplate before the heat-charms imbued in the lead activated. Twin jets of white hot flame shrieked from its chest, setting its fancy clothes alight but little else.

“Ah, shit.”

The auton swatted the pistols from Edwin’s hands, an instant later sweeping its useless hand out in front of itself, catching Edwin across the chest with a heavy brass arm. Edwin grunted as the wind was knocked from him, the force of the blow lifting him clean off his feet and sending him sailing through the air. He bounced painfully on the hardwood floor. ‘ _Shit, this thing must be an army auton! None of my short guns have enough punch to get through its armor! Need my long-gun…_ ’

Edwin hurriedly set about assembling his rifle, trying not to let panic trip his fingers as the towering metal man stomped towards him.

On the other side of the room, a body stirred. Arcs of fuchsia energy danced over the crumpled form, its hands unthinkingly reaching up and grasping the dangling head, delicately repositioning it until it it was back in a normal position. Demonic power surged and flesh, bone, and sinew knit together, the corpse’s dead eyes lit up once more. Aloise was back.

With a keening, otherworldly cry, the incubus launched across the room, landing on the auton’s back, long knife plunging into the gaps in its armor about its head and neck. The auton flailed and spun around, uselessly trying to grab at the incensed demon on its back. With a final click of brass locks, the weapon was assembled and primed, the chamber still loaded from the first botched assassination attempt. Edwin activated the charm-selector on the stock and leveled the barrel at the struggling machine.

“Aloise!”

The rabbit allowed himself to be thrown from the bucking auton, expertly rolling in mid-air that his rump slid across the polished mahogany of Cyrano’s desk; he quickly scurried under it and pulled himself into a ball. The report of the rifle was deafening but not half so loud as the charm the rifle had imparted onto the bullet, buzzing and crackling like a thunderstorm. The enchanted ball smashed into the sturdy breastplate of the auton, punching through with ease, the bullet lodged in the mechanisms within. With a hellish buzzing shriek and a low bass thrum the charm discharged a powerful lightning spell into the auton. It jittered and danced about as white-hot bands of energy arched from every crease in its body, the stench of ozone and burning metal thick and pungent in the air. The auton slumped, twitched, and fell over dead.

Cyrano, his aquiline nose bleeding and bent, inched towards the door as silently as he could, under one arm was the heavy satchel as the other reached out for the handle. A whistling split the air and a throwing knife pinned his arm to the door by the cuff of his silk jacket. Cyrano cursed as he tried in vain to dislodge the enchanted blade when a low click drew his attention. Edwin and Aloise stood over him, a derringer and a blade leveled at the composer.

“Upon furzher review,” Aloise hissed, pulling the throwing-knife out of the door. “I must reject His Excellency’s counter-proposal.”

“That’s fair.” Cyrano reached into his pocket and produced a checkbook and scribbled in it, ripping out the check and handing it to the incensed rabbit. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Aloise examined the check, a pointy smile crawling across his fine features. “Two-hundred- _fifty_ gold dinars?”

“A tip,” said Cyrano, dusting himself off. “For professionalism.”

“Much obliged.” Aloise opened the door and showed himself out. “Come along, Eddie.”

Edwin moved to follow after, but stopped and pointed to his nose and then to Cyrano’s. “You got a little, uh, hold on. Here.”

He reached out and pinched the crooked, bloody remains of the man’s once regal aquiline nose and wrenched it back into place with a meaty crunch. Cyrano howled in pain as black blood flowed freely down his face and onto his red silk jacket.

“You’ll thank me later,” Edwin said as he showed himself out. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

* * *

A trip to the bank later and the their carriage was back on its way to the slums of Great Caulden, their coin purse gravid and heavy in a way that filled Edwin with something like satisfaction. Another thing that made him smile was the fact that Cyrano had wisely elected to not accompany them with more of his wretched autons. If Edwin never saw a mechanical man again, it would be too soon.

“The next time your contacts have work,” said Edwin. “Do me a favor and leave me out of it.”

“What?” Aloise simpered, jangling the coins. “It all worked out, and we even made a tip on top of our bonus.”

“Was getting your neck snapped is part of ‘it all working out’?”

“I got better,” said Aloise, winking. “Zhanks to you.”

Edwin cleared his throat and turned to look out the window. “I guess you would have gotten a bit of a top-up from that.”

Aloise licked his glossy lips and crossed his long, supple legs. “Zhat I did. Alzhough, it was its own reward to some extent.”

“Next time, I’m going with Pik.”

The carriage ground to a halt and the pair excused themselves from the ornate vehicle. Edwin pushed open the door to their hovel, he almost felt tired enough to actually sleep on that louse-farm that passed for a bed. Almost.

“You would not believe the day I had.”

Pik looked up at them from the floor, in her hands was a wriggling aether-eel. She smiled, he could see she was missing about four teeth and her right was eye swollen shut. More pressingly, all about her on the floor were corpses, some fresh, others not-so-much. “Oh yeah?”

Edwin sighed and shook his head as Aloise stepped over the corpses. “Try not to choke on your words, Eddie.”

* * *

  
Uhhh

Go see [Laz's page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar)  
Go  
Now

**Author's Note:**

> Do it


End file.
